The Physician, The Sociopath, and Quite Some Outsiders
by LenaV
Summary: When a murder case leads Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to the discovery of a strange tool that seems to manipulate the technology around them, they find themselves dealing with something not quite of this world. Or this universe, actually. Meanwhile, the Doctor finds himself facing more choices than he had anticipated. Reviews are cool.
1. Chapter One

***Author's note: I'm sorry for my lack of originality with the plot! Honestly, I really wanted to try a Sherlock and Doctor Who crossover and NOTHING came to mind. Thank Davros for daleks... Also, not all chapters are going to be this short: as soon as I actually get into some action, I am hoping I'll have at least three times this much. :)**

Sherlock Holmes leaned against the back of the armchair, bored. His last case had been a whole five hours ago and right now he was on the verge of exploding from boredom. Right now, however, he chose to apathetically lounge in the chair, almost hearing a tick-tock like that of a bomb primed to detonate any second in his head.

His flatmate, Watson, knew him well enough to feel a touch of foreboding. If no case popped up soon, he'd have to deal with Sherlock's even-more-bored, "explosion" state. Which, by all laws of the universe, NO ONE should have to deal with.

When the phone rang, Sherlock jumped out of his chair. He'd have turned over the coffee table if John hadn't stuck out his foot to intercept it at the perfect time. It was an art one had to master if they were to attempt to to share a flat with Sherlock (his brother, Mycroft, described as "hellish" and John couldn't help but agree sometimes). If, however, one was to look at the positives, this time, the detective didn't ask for John to fetch the phone. Must have been a first.

"Yes?" Sherlock had an air of someone striving to contain excitement as he listened to the person on the phone for a pretty long while, then answered curtly, sounding a little like a seagull. "Of course. I'll be there instantly."

"Was that Lestrade?" John asked after he hung up.

"Obviously. Come on!"

John shook his head, put down the newspaper, and followed at his own speed. There was no way that he could keep up with the detective when he was on a case, so he didn't set his aims too high.  
_

"Appears to be electrocution, but…" Sherlock murmured, sounding almost gentle. He didn't finish the thought. Turning to Lestrade, he reverted to his normal, bossy self. "I need to see the other body."  
The detective looked sort of awkward: not a strange look for any police officer dealing with Sherlock, but rather unexpected in this situation: Sherlock barely even had time to embarrass the inspector twice.

"I'm afraid you're out of luck…"


	2. Chapter Two

"Right," John recounted a few hours later, puzzled (wasn't he always?), as he sat in the cab "Two bodies found in an abandoned packing warehouse. Not counting them, seven people missing around there. The death looks like electrocution, except it isn't, because the insides are literally... scrambled up, like in a blender. Then, one body goes missing, and apparently no security tapes show anything about that. The other body, which would have been much easier to move, is left untouched…."  
"I don't want you to summarize the entire thing!" Sherlock snapped. "I was there! Your conclusions, please."

"There must be some sort of threat in the vicinity. Maybe in the warehouse, some sort of gang?" John suggested. "Um, so the other body was more important somehow? Maybe it had some sort of evidence of who did it? But then, why didn't the police notice?"  
"When do they notice anything? Go on."

"Er, and the neighborhood with the warehouse could maybe have a gang or secret organization of some sort. The victims must have been killed using some sort of less known weapon?" John knew that his theory became a weak one towards the end.

"Seems to be a likely idea, doesn't it?" Sherlock commented.

"If you have a better one, you can just say that, you know."

At that point, the cab arrived at the destination and put an end to the conversation. They had arrived at the abandoned warehouse. Sherlock looked at it in a way that reminded John of one of those high-tech scanners from science fiction movies, except faster. He proceeded to enter, opening the doors slowly, though John could see he didn't actually expect anyone to be in there. The detective proceeded to take out a torch, illuminating their surroundings.

There was no one anywhere in sight. The light reflected on the hard stone floor under their feet, and the ceiling was extremely high. Metal structures lined the large room: skeletons of long term storage containers, stripped of their shelves and contents. To the far corner, a pile of broken metal pieces was located, a ladder sticking out of the bunch. The few windows were boarded up. Raising his torch, John directed the beam of light to the ceiling, noticing that all the lamps were either broken or not connected.

Sherlock proceeded forward, pausing from time to time.  
"Where were the bodies?" John asked Lestrade, feeling rather useless.

"We found the first one near the ladder. Then, the one you never saw, over by the corner."  
"Right, okay." And the medic hurried to catch up with the detective, who had made his way to a metal structure that seemed to hold his attention. As he came nearer, John could see why: a neat little hole of a rather familiar shape captured his gaze, too, though he doubted he'd have noticed it if Sherlock had walked past it. It was obviously a bullet hole.

"Someone shot in here!" Came Lestrade's voice from behind them, making John jump.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, rather impatiently. As the inspector came closer, Sherlock left the metal structure alone.

Nothing else happened that seemed to matter (from John's perspective, that is), until, almost fifteen minutes later, the blogger was the one to find an important object. By accident, of course, because everyone know's John never finds anything by skill.

Instead, he stepped on what seemed to be a rather thick pencil or pen. As he bent down to examine it, he realized that he'd never seen anything quite like it before.

"Sherlock? Come look at this…" He called, picking it up to examine it better. The object was metal, with a tip that seemed to be made from green glass and an end with looked like it was made to be held. There was a small, hard to notice button on it. Something made John want to press it, though he knew how stupid that would be.

Their visit to the warehouse resulted in no more finds. The object was x-rayed at the police station. Though they couldn't be sure, Lestrade said that the possibility of it being a bomb was very low.

When John, wearing gloves, pressed the button, it emitted a high-pitched noise. He immediately stopped, but in the short time that he did that, a light bulb in the building turned on and off again.

"Let me see that," Said Sherlock, stretching out his hand. John handed it to him with a bit of hesitation. For some reason, he liked that thing a lot.

Sherlock pressed the button, making the high-pitched noise happen again. This time nothing happened with the light bulb. The detective raised his eyebrows, releasing the little button. He examined the thing again.  
"What can you say about it?" John asked. Though the detective had looked at it noise-making light bulb manipulating device two times after they had found it, he contrary to what was normal for him, said nothing about it.

"Have a look yourself." Sherlock handed it to him. John felt that he enjoyed watching him struggle to form an opinion, but the the dark-haired man insisted that he needed an "outside opinion". Whatever that meant.

"Well, it is probably a tool of some sort." Start with the obvious, add on, and call it a strategy. "And it must have been used a lot. There's grease on here, and a bit of dust. The metal is rusty at certain points. Are you sure you can't find fingerprints on it?"  
"Positive. Too smudged. Please do continue. You're doing good."  
"Well- it could be just some sort of prank. Using the high-pitched noise to drive people bonkers…" John fiddled with the tool, turning it in his hands. Suddenly, as he brushed against something like tiny lever, the thing unfolded in his hands, becoming twice as long as it was before. Acting on instinct, he pointed it up and pressed the button again.

He couldn't have anticipated the result. A metal door at the police station, previously locked, started opening and closing rapidly. Shocked, he only thought to release the button a few seconds later.

"...Or not."

He had no idea what Sherlock did to get Lestrade to let him take the tool overnight to their flat to examine, even if it was evidence important to the case and probably dangerous.

It was folded to the smaller version again, and the detective was finally explaining what he knew to John.  
"It was used by a man, mostly. He had an incredibly low usual body temperature, compared to normal. Very old, over a hundred years, but very sturdy. I can't identify the silver metal…" Sherlock paused, then added. "Not a weapon, but a tool, yes."  
"What about the sound?"  
"Either the sound of it working, or the sound it uses to work."  
"The light bulb and door?"  
"That's what I am trying to understand." Sherlock snapped. John picked the tool up again. He loved the feel of it in his hand. It sort of felt right, with his fist around it. It took all of his willpower not to press the button again.

Just then, the doorbell rang. He glanced at the clock: it was ten in the night. Who would be coming at this time?

"I'll get it," He volunteered, putting the thing down, though the prospect of some sort of gang or killer coming to get their revenge on Sherlock or something didn't sound pleasant.

When he opened the door, the visitor turned out to be rather harmless-looking: it was a man, in tweed and with a bow-tie, and surprisingly young for his outfit. He had a rather big grin.

"Terribly sorry to intrude," He put his hand out, and, flabbergasted, John shook it, "I'm the Doctor, and I'm pretty sure you have something of mine…"


	3. Chapter Three

**A/N: Sorry this is late, confusing and has too much dialogue. This was literally typed short bursts and then glossed over as much I could afterwards. Really busy lately. Anyyway, I hope it's OK and I might re-do it later if you feel the characters are not acting like themselves.**

" Watson," The medic introduced himself.

"Really? Interesting." The reply was a bit unusual, and John could only think that the man had read his blog.

"Perhaps you could describe what you're looking for?" He asked, though something told him that he already knew the answer.

"It's small, around twice the size of a pen, and metal. Rather heavy, with a green light at the farther end of it. The metal is partly copper-colored, partly silver-"

"Alright, um, could you wait here for a moment?" John asked, closing the door rather lightly, but still in the guy's (Doctor something's?) face.

He walked over to his flatmate, picking up the device. "There's a guy by the door who says this is his."

"I heard." Sherlock had stood up.

"We shouldn't give it to him, should we?" John asked, thoroughly confused on their next move.

Sherlock glanced at him in a do-I-actually-need-to-explain-this way, and said rather sarcastically, in a preschool teacher kind of voice, "Should we give an unknown, probably dangerous tool associated with a murder to a man who didn't even give you his name when he popped up in the late evening hours? Not without asking some questions first."

"Alright, alright, I get it."  
Sherlock scooped the tool out of John's hand again, and proceeded to open the door.

"You'd be Sherlock Holmes, then?" The man, clearly used to doors being closed in his face, asked.

Sherlock did the scanning thing with his eyes again. "Yes, I _would_. And this is the thing you're looking for?"  
He waved the object in the air.

"Yes,_ it is_." The Doctor smiled (beamed would be an even better description, as the smile took up his entire face and threatened to fall off that, too) instinctively reached out to take it, but Sherlock withdrew his hand.

"What does it do?" Sherlock pressed, dropping the nonchalant tone he had assumed.

"Quite a bit of things, actually. Can I have it back?" The Doctor also sounded quite a bit more hostile.

"What is it? Who are you?" The detective questioned. He was pretty sure that an honest answer was not going to follow, but very often people gave away more than they knew when they lied.

"I'm the Doctor, and that's my screwdriver! I need it back!"

"What kind of a screwdriver looks like that?" John asked rather timidly.

"A sonic screwdriver." The Doctor said in a "duh" kind of voice Sherlock could see was fake.

"What is its purpose?" Sherlock demanded again.

"You know, it's really not nice to take people's things." The Doctor replied.

"It's the best way to ensure that you'll have your questions answered."  
The Doctor glared. He wasn't the first person to glare at Sherlock, nor, most certainly, the last, but he one of those glares that John actually remembered. Bow-tie, tweed and all, he looked rather ridiculous, so the fact that he could pull off an angry, gloomy glare was rather impressive. He seemed to have gotten a lot of practice glaring, John noted, because this was a rather clear signal with just a dash of pouting.

"I'm not telling you anything, Holmes, unless you give me my screwdriver."

"What if you use it to kill both of us?" John asked, tired of being left out of the conversation.

"It's a _screwdriver, _Dr_._Watson_._" The Doctor sighed, clearly exasperated.

John wasn't sure why the guy liked last names so much. Maybe he thought he was being polite. He wasn't.

"If I do give it to you, you'll have to explain. Everything." Sherlock offered. John decided that the detective was confused for the first time since the case of the geek interpreter, but thought that bargaining was a terrible idea. He didn't trust this Doctor one bit.

"Deal." The Doctor said, snatching the tool out of Sherlock's hand.

"Explain yourself, then." Sherlock replied, with a definite air of mistrust, along with the feel of someone trying to contain curiosity. All in all, he reminded John of a child opening a present from a crabby, annoying great aunt.

"It's freezing. Can we at least come inside?" John asked. Apparently, neither the Doctor nor Sherlock had noticed the cold. At least they did come in.

There was a short, tense silence before Sherlock began to ask his questions.

"What is the specific purpose of the tool?"

"Opens locks, manipulates basic technology -complicated technology, too, sometimes, but that's trickier- bypasses many types of security, cuts through metal, mends certain types of metals, scans basically anything, mends very minor wounds, finds heat signatures easily, can upgrade many common devices, works great with electricity, too, and works as a microphone or projector. Are you impressed yet?" The Doctor spoke nearly as fast as Sherlock.  
John was, and quite so. If all that the Doctor said was true.

"No." Sherlock said, looking skeptical, but not as skeptical as John expected him to look. "Who are?"  
"I'm the Doctor. And it toasts bread, too."  
"No, really, who are?"

"The Doctor. My name is the Doctor."  
"Where did you get the screwdriver?"  
"I invented it."

"How did you know we had it?"  
"You pressed the button. There's nothing easier than tracking the signal, ."

"I thought so. You are not human, are you?"

John stared at the detective, more than a bit surprised at the question. Obviously the stranger was human! What else was he supposed to be, a chicken?  
"You're rather bright, are you not, Holmes?" The Doctor squinted at him. "No, frankly, I am not."

"What?" John asked sarcastically, completely confused. "What are you saying you are then? A robot? A dog? A robot dog?"

"No, he's an alien." Sherlock interfered.

"A bow-tie wearing alien?" John asked.

"Oi! Bow-ties are cool!"

"Are they cool on your planet?" John asked, playing along because Sherlock seemed to be doing just that.

"No." For no reason that he could see, the Doctor's face darkened.

"Why did you come here?"

"I like Earth." He paused in a way that made John think he would continue, but he didn't.

"No, why did you come here, to London, and to the year two thousand and ten?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Oh, right. I followed an amount of daleks that opened a portal to your universe."

"Our universe? Come to the year?..." John asked.  
"Yep. They didn't know what they were doing, and now I'll have to make sure to prevent the collapse of all the universes parallel to ours, after I eliminate the dalek threat."  
"Daleks. Are they responsible for the murders?" Asked Sherlock.

"Yes. They're aliens, too, cyborgs in a way: hard outer shell and soft inside. Resemble pepperpots or salt-shakers, really, and they'll exterminate anything not dalek."  
"Why are you telling us all of that?" John demanded. "In your situation, I'd lie."

"Obviously, he knows that if we were to tell anyone, we'd end up in a mental health institution. Besides, he probably recons- correctly,- that I'd see if he was being untruthful. I also don't see any advantage of secrecy in his situation: it's not like we'd be able to communicate with the daleks without getting killed." Sherlock explained.

"Couldn't have put it better myself, Holmes." The Doctor smiled. "Anyway, there's daleks to face, universes to fix. You won't see me again, if all goes to plan."  
"I need to hear the whole story, Doctor, there are still a few parts I'm unclear on. We had a deal." Sherlock stopped him.

"We did." The Doctor admitted. John settled back down, trying to figure out what information the man was trying to hide in what he was saying. He certainly couldn't be serious.

"Right- so, I got a message from a friend of mine, Jack, saying that he thought that there was a… disturbance in the fabric of the universe, our universe. I, well, I suspected it was… another universe I know acting up, so I went to investigate that immediately, because that could result in a total collapse of reality. When I got there, I could see exactly how much of the walls in the many universes parallel to these two had disintegrated, and it wasn't good. Your universe, however, had the traces of someone entering not so long ago. My first instinct was to shut them in your world, but my… ship is much more subtle than a dalek one, so I followed them here in order to make sure they… don't destroy your entire galaxy or something: you know 'em daleks."

"Um, no, I don't." John pointed out.

"Just hope you never have to, , just hope you never have to. Right, where was I? We followed the daleks to a warehouse, but they caught us by surprise. We were forced to flee, and one of my friends was killed. It's not permanent, though. AND DON'T GET ALL PICKPOCKETY WITH MY SCREWDRIVER, HOLMES!"

It was Sherlock's turn to pout.

"My screwdriver." The Doctor repeated, cradling the tool.

"Are you saying that death isn't permanent in your universe?" John asked, completely and utterly confused.

"Nooo, I am saying that my friend has the awfully annoying habit of dying not permanently."

"How is that possible?"

"Imagine that you have a stone."  
"Okay?"

"But you don't actually have the stone, because the stone literally never existed."  
"Okay…?"

"So can you destroy the stone?"  
"No?"

"Right, so because our universe won't acknowledge Jack's existence, Jack can't stop existing and must continue being a pain in the… anyway, can I go yet?"

"Wait, wait, wait!" John cried, confused. "But if it's YOUR universe that won't let him die, and you're in OUR universe, how can he still not stop existing… um, not die?"  
"While we're visiting your universe, we're still tied to ours."

"If you're tied to yours, how can you be in ours?"

"Hold this, Dr. Watson." The Doctor took out a yo-yo.

"Okay?"

"Put the string around your finger."

"Okay?"  
"Now give it to Holmes."

John handed the yo-yo to Sherlock, who looked half bored, half annoyed.

"No, keep the string on your finger."  
John repeated the entire procedure.

"See? The string is holding the yo-yo on your finger while Holmes has the yo-yo. Now imagine the yo-yo is Jack and Holmes and you are different universe… On the other hand, don't imagine that. Um, I'M the yo-yo. Okay?"

Sherlock dropped the yo-yo, which clattered loudly onto the floor.

"Ow!" The Doctor said, opening the door and exiting.

Sherlock grabbed his coat and pulled it on, which John took as a signal to do the same. Walking briskly, they quickly caught up with the Doctor, who, even if he wasn't skipping, was certainly on the verge of doing so.


End file.
